ears straining. They were
moving slowly about. They were talking in subdued tones. Still minute
after minute passing, and no word from the voice for which he listened.
His nerves were dulled by his night of trouble, and he waited in limp
wretchedness upon his sofa. There he still sat when the doctors came
down to him--a bedraggled, miserable figure with his face grimy and his
hair unkempt from his long vigil. He rose as they entered, bracing
himself against the mantelpiece.

"Is she dead?" he asked.

"Doing well," answered the doctor.

And at the words that little conventional spirit which had never known
until that night the capacity for fierce agony which lay within it,
learned for the second time that there were springs of joy also which
it had never tapped before. His impulse was to fall upon his knees,
but he was shy before the doctors.

"Can I go up?"

"In a few minutes."

"I'm sure, doctor, I'm very--I'm very----" he grew inarticulate. "Here
are your three guineas, Dr. Pritchard. I wish they were three hundred."

"So do I," said the senior man, and they laughed as they shook hands.

Johnson opened the shop door for them and heard their talk as they
stood for an instant outside.

"Looked nasty at one time."

"Very glad to have your help."

"Delighted, I'm sure. Won't you step round and have a cup of coffee?"

"No, thanks. I'm expecting another case."

The firm step and the dragging one passed away to the right and the
left. Johnson turned from the door still with that turmoil of joy in
his heart. He seemed to be making a new start in life. He felt that
he was a stronger and a deeper man. Perhaps all this suffering had an
object then. It might prove to be a blessing both to his wife and to
him. The very thought was one which he would have been incapable of
conceiving twelve hours before. He was full of new emotions. If there
had been a harrowing there had been a planting too.

"Can I come up?" he cried, and then, without waiting for an answer, he
took the steps three at a time.

Mrs. Peyton was standing by a soapy bath with a bundle in her hands.
From under the curve of a brown shawl there looked out at him the
strangest little red face with crumpled features, moist, loose lips,
and eyelids which quivered like a rabbit's nostrils. The weak neck had
let the head topple over, and it rested upon the shoulder.

"Kiss it, Robert!" cried the grandmother. "Kiss your son!"

But he